


It Sounds Like Drumming

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Aziraphale attempts to rescue Crowley, Crowley does not get his wings cut off but there is torture please be warned, Crowley goes to Hell, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NOTHING SEXUAL AT ALL, Songfic, South Downs Cottage, i'm sorry but hadestown made me do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 04:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Wait for me, I’m comingWait, I’m coming with youWait for me, I’m coming tooI’m coming tooAziraphale wakes up and Crowley isn't there. Aziraphale has to find him.(There is no Major Character Death, I promise you.)





	It Sounds Like Drumming

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: there's gonna be a lot of hurt, okay? But there's not any sexual torture, or sexual abuse. This is dark, but I promise it's going to end okay. If you need to skip to the end, that's okay too!!!! <3 
> 
> Also, this headcanon has been building for a while, and you can see it in especially the last several fics-- Aziraphale has Essential Tremors in his hands. It's from nerve damage back in the First World War (haven't decided exactly what happened there). It's chronic, and Adam never fixed it because Adam didn't know it even existed; when he gets nervous, when he gets stressed, when pretty much anything is Too Much or he runs out of spoons, the tremors start up. 
> 
> Anyways! 
> 
> This is based off Wait For Me from Hadestown. When Newt appeared, I started listening to It's Quiet Uptown from Hamilton. Like I said before, no one major dies. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. <3

Aziraphale woke without Crowley beside him.

This, in and of itself, was not particularly unusual. Many mornings began, these days, with Crowley bringing Aziraphale a tea or cocoa. It was a pleasant way to wake, being brought something by your husband. 

Aziraphale smiled and looked down at his ring— the ruby heart, the snake heads surrounding it. _Husband_. A fine word. He liked that word quite a bit, much like he liked the word _home_ , the word that labeled their South Downs cottage in all it’s quiet glory. 

It was very quiet. 

Too quiet, actually, not even distant sounds of shuffling dishes or spritzing plants. It was still, almost a deathly stillness, and Aziraphale didn’t like it.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Crowley?” he called out softly. He waited for the sound of shuffling footsteps. None came. 

Crowley had been acting weird recently. Aziraphale had assumed the demon was just planning something— their anniversary was coming up soon, and Crowley was not good at being stealthy with special plans. 

It didn’t feel that way anymore. 

“Crowley?” he said, a little louder now, anxiety creeping in, hands beginning to shake as he dressed. He pulled on his same trousers, but went for a royal blue jumper instead. The tremors would prevent him from buttoning his shirt, waist-coat— he couldn’t even think about the bowtie. The slip-on sweater would have to do today. 

He wished Crowley would come in and hold his hand so he’d forget the tremors. He wished the demon would text him. He wished the demon were here. 

“Crowley?” he called again, louder now, rounding the corner from their bedroom. His phone was waiting for him on the table. No new messages. 

No note on the table.

Trying to tamp down panic, he looked out the kitchen window, out over the garden. There was no Crowley, human or snake, nor any of Crowley’s tools. 

“Crowley!”

He was really truly distressed now. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, even in fists. 

“Aziraphale!” 

He whipped around at the unfamiliar voice. An impish creature, too light for a real corporation, smiled up at him. 

The test of the holy water. He remembers this tiny demon, remembers the way Hastur had flung them into the tub. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to help himself— he’d hoped no one would notice the miracle of him disincorporating the demon’s soul just before they hit the water. Apparently it had worked. He’d never really been sure. 

“Uh—“ 

“Nah, don’t worry, I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced,” the imp said. “I’m Sludge.” 

“Uhm, Sludge. I’m… glad you survived.”

Sludge didn’t look as happy about it. Their ghostly form recovered quickly, though, returning to a smile. “Y’must be looking for Master Crowley!” 

“Yes, I am— where is he?” 

Sludge titled their head to the side, smile fading ever so slightly. “Doesn’t matter, angel, ain’t you got a manuscript to read?”

“No, I—“ Aziraphale choked himself off. He couldn’t think of Crowley’s work if his husband wasn’t safe. “No, where is he?” 

Sludge turned, their ghost flitting up to look out the window. “He said you’d do this. Told me to tell you he’d be fine.” 

“I’m sure he did— now where is he?” Aziraphale was starting to get irritated. He tried to flex his fingers, but the tremors were making that hard. 

“Why d’ya wanna know?” Sludge actually looked curious. 

“Because something’s _wrong_ , and I need to make sure he’s okay.” This didn’t seem to be enough for the imp, and Aziraphale looked heavenward before tersely saying “I love him!” 

His ring clinked softly against itself. 

Sludge looked confused now. “What if I said he’s…down below?”

Aziraphale balked. “Down? Below??” His right hand came up to his left, brushing over the heart of the ring. Both hands were still shaking. It wasn’t graceful.

They nodded. “Six-feet-under is an understatement. He sent me to look after you.”

Aziraphale was _horrified_ , truly horrified. “ _No_.” 

Crowley wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t send someone to _look after_ his husband unless he didn’t plan on coming back. He had to do something. Hell could destroy Crowley, even if they thought he was immune to holy water— there were other methods of permanently discorporating a demon.

Oh, _God_ , they were going to _kill_ his husband. 

“Hey, angel,” Sludge started, head tilted again, “just curious, what all would’y’ do for Master Crowley?”

Aziraphale stared at them for a long moment. Then, he straightened slightly, pulled at his jumper, and said, “I’m going to Hell.” 

The implication was clear. Anything. 

Sludge whistled. They considered the angel for a moment. “Y’gonna walk in the front door?” 

“I—“ Aziraphale hadn’t thought of that. His shoulders sagged again. “No?” 

Sludge’s ghost smiled. “Didn’t think so.” Their teeth were very sharp, except for where they were very blunt. Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “Y’know, there’s other ways to get in. Not that I’m supposed to tell anyone, least’ve all _you_.”

The angel’s heart fluttered. “There is?” He could feel some stirring of courage. “Where? Tell me!” 

They rolled their eyes. “Master Crowley is gonna be so mad.” Then they considered Aziraphale a moment. “It ain’t easy. Not for the…” they gestured over Aziraphale’s form, “sensitive type, so… y’sure you wanna go?”

Aziraphale felt rage mixed with love, and it burst through this form, showing his true form— six wings, eyes on every feather, his whole being blinding. Cracks in this form showed room for more eyes, or for the holy fire that burned such a blinding light. 

It was over in a flash. “I’m… I’m very sure,” he whispered, “with all my heart.”

Sludge frowned deeply. “That’s a start.”

And then the imp told the angel how to get to Hell. 

It would be a long journey, and it would be dark, and Aziraphale could, under no circumstance reveal anything of his true form. If he at all let on who he was or why he was there, he’d be destroyed. 

If that was true, he thought, what had already happened to Crowley? 

What were they doing to his beloved? 

He found himself in another dark corridor, hands shaking, body disguised in some of the muddiest clothes he’d ever seen. It was _disgusting_ , but it might just save his demon, so he was willing to bear it. 

He felt lost. He had nothing to guide him but the vague words of the ghost of an imp. He tried to push down his panic, dragging his feet forward, looking for the little signs Sludge had told him about. Crosses on the ground. Aziraphale didn’t dare to touch them, stepping around them.

He had to keep going, he had to get to Crowley. 

Why couldn’t Crowley have waited? Why couldn’t he have told Aziraphale where he was going? Couldn’t they have planned something? 

His hands shook.

 _Wait for me_ , he chanted in his mind, hoping Crowley would hear him, _I’m coming, I’m coming, wait!_

The entrance to Hell, in this workaround, was the River Styx. It wasn’t wide and deep, like the rolling River Jordan. In truth, it was more a wall than a river. It loomed before him like the Red Sea before Moses, and he had no power to part it. 

It would be like concrete, that water. He could not pass through it without risking destruction. He couldn’t push past the traps inlaid for the poor souls that tried to make a run for it. 

The guards of this gate snarled as human souls lined up before them, shuffling in step. Each passed a coin to a guard and was let through.

If they did not have coin, if they did not have something to give, they were pushed in. Those souls either ran, chased by other cackling demons, or fell to waste. 

Heavens above, this was a cruel world. Crowley did not belong here. He could not be from here, this place was too unlike his dearest love to claim the demon. 

Cackling of sated demons became cackling of hungry demons. He knew, worst to worst, he could outrun them. He would just have to risk everything, risk whoever had Crowley finding out Aziraphale was coming for him. 

His shaking hands felt in his pocket for the coin Sludge had given him. 

“Be ready to run,” the imp had nearly snarled.

It was a wish of luck, in a way. 

He shuffled in line with the humans. None of them noticed where he cut in, absorbed in their own misery. Aziraphale wished he could help them, give them at least safe passage, but he only had the one coin, and risking a miracle would put his husband at risk. 

_Wait for me_ , he chanted as his feet moved in time with the other sounds drudging ahead, _I’m coming, I’m coming for you._

Doubt entered his mind as he neared the guards. They didn’t look bored like he’d expected.

Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing, alone, trying to willingly enter Hell? He had no support here, and if he failed they would surely destroy Crowley— what was he _doing?_ Oh, God, was this a _mistake?_ Was this Pride taking his heart, thinking he could succeed where Orpheus had failed so many millennia ago? 

He felt calm wash over him like some holy presence. He didn’t dare question it. He let it build instead, picking up his legs for him, calling him towards Crowley, the thread of Fate leading them to each other. 

He handed his coin to the guard and then he was shuffling through the River Styx, trying to ignore the sounds of souls being devoured by the hunting demons. He had no time.

He shuffled faster, avoiding the poor wretches in his way, but not quite running. They looked to him, almost seeming to sense his holiness, and he had to look away. He had to ignore their misery. It hurt him to do so, brought tears to his eyes, but this wasn’t for him— this was for Crowley.

They could take revenge together. Later. When Crowley was safe. 

He couldn’t give these people his energy. 

He ignored the screams of a once-man who’d broken out into a panicked run to try and get to safety. He ignored the stopping of the screaming, the demonic cackling that followed it, the shrieking of the lover as they watched the once-man truly die. 

He ignored that their screams stopped too. 

He swallowed around a dry mouth. 

He crossed the threshold of the River Styx at long last, letting panic overtake him for a moment. 

_Wait for me, I’m coming, wait!_

It bounced back at him, sharp and accusatory. How hadn’t he realized what Crowley had been planning? How hadn’t he put the clues together? What had he missed? Why was Crowley here, and why hadn’t Aziraphale known? 

He spurred his feet forward, following instinct. He could feel Crowley now, he just had to find him. 

_Wait!_

His feet were like drums, and he was truly running now, the sound echoing in the blessedly empty hallway. 

A moment of peace washed over him. Perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he thought, perhaps She was here with him, perhaps he had a chance— 

_I’m coming, wait!_

The walls seemed to part for him, and then he was standing in the doorway to a room, and Crowley was there. Kneeling. Bloodied. 

The demon’s head jerked up at the sound, and Aziraphale could feel his disguise melting away as he realized Crowley’s eyes were red with blood. 

“Azira—“ his voice was too raspy to finish the angel’s name.

Aziraphale felt that rage mix with love again, and his true form burst forth. 

Crowley did not close his eyes; he had seen this form before, but even if he hadn’t, he was blind at the moment. The sliced skin of his forehead continued to pour out blood with the strength of a fountain. 

The two demons tasked with guarding him shrieked as they burned away. Their ash dissolved next, last vestiges of evil disappearing as holy light seared them away. 

Aziraphale strode forward, hands clasping the chains that kept Crowley bound in the center of this room, arms stretched out to the point of dislocation. The chains dissolved and Crowley hissed, pulling his arms to his chest. 

“Aziraphale,” he rasped, swallowed dryly. “You shouldn’t—“ he broke off in coughing. 

Aziraphale broke the chains around his husband’s ankles and picked the demon up, cradling him close to his angelic chest. 

He called upon his Grace.

They left Hell. 

They entered the world again in Tadfield, outside the cottage that housed Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer. 

Aziraphale fell to his knees as he screamed, Crowley’s fingers weakening against his arm. 

The door to the cottage flew open and Anathema stood there, mouth agape as she tried to reconcile what she was seeing in front of her. 

“ _Please_ ,” Aziraphale shrieked, and she sprung into action, practically picking him up with steady hands, calling for Newt. 

Aziraphale’s Grace had run out, and his hands were shaking terribly. 

Newt had surprising force when he knocked Anathema’s kitchen island free of anything. Crowley was laid atop it, and he seized in pain at the cold against his back. “Turn him over,” Anathema demanded, and Newt obeyed. Aziraphale gasped as he saw the deep gouges in his husband’s back, oozing deeper than blood. Anathema hissed, then looked to Aziraphale. “Take care of his eyes.”

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded. He distantly heard Anathema instructing Newt to gather certain things, herbs he would guess. 

He placed his left hand against Crowley’s forehead, trying to press the skin back where it belonged. “Oh, my love,” he whimpered, “what have they done to you?”

Crowley’s hand struggled up, then circled the angel’s wrist, and he sobbed. 

Aziraphale knelt, pressing his forehead against his own hand. “Please,” he prayed, “please.” 

He felt that same sense of calm wash over him, his trembling hands stilling for a moment. He felt Crowley’s flesh come back together. He wanted to find water and a cloth to clear his husband’s eyes, but he didn’t dare move. 

The door to Anathema’s cottage swung open, and four twelve year olds stood in the doorway. Adam Young stepped forward, eyes wide. Pepper pushed past him and began filling bowls with water, commanding Brian to find cloths, very many of them, and Wensleydale to find bandages. 

Adam remained at the door, eyes wide. His hands did not shake. 

“Help me,” Anathema said to him, calmly, and he obeyed. 

Brian brought Aziraphale a cloth, and Pepper brought him water, and Aziraphale began to clean Crowley’s face, trying to keep the shaking of his hands under control. Pepper noticed, perceptive as she was. She offered to help.

The job went faster with two. 

Crowley’s golden eyes squinted at Aziraphale, pain evident, tears mixing with the water that had just flushed the blood from his eyes. Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead. 

He held his husband’s hands in his own as Anathema and Adam worked diligently, the witch commanding the helpers. There was a Grace about them, about the set of her jaw, determined to fix the damage wrought. 

When she was finished, Crowley’s back was plastered with bandages. It took two adults and an angel to move him to a bed that Adam had willed into existence. 

Aziraphale thanked the boy with a trembling hand to his shoulder. Adam did not notice the shaking. 

It was finally, blessedly quiet. 

Crowley exhaled shaky breaths, on the precipice of sobbing. Aziraphale held his hands, kissed the corners of his eyes, brushed away the tears that leaked out as Crowley stared at the dimpled ceiling. 

“You weren’t supposed to come,” the demon squeezed out, voice breaking.

“I was supposed to let you _die_?” Aziraphale tried not to sob. It was useless. They were both undone. 

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you’re going through,” Aziraphale pleaded.

“You weren’t supposed to help, you were supposed to stay _safe,_ you were going—“ Crowley choked off, turning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut. 

Aziraphale hung his head, letting just the barest pressure of his forehead land on Crowley’s shoulder. “I couldn’t live without you,” he breathed, hardly a pitch behind it. 

Crowley whimpered. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon. “Please,” Aziraphale sobbed, “please, _never_ do that again, _please_ —“ 

Crowley groaned. “Angel.” 

Aziraphale tried not to grip harder. He hadn’t realized how close he’d come to never hearing that again. 

Crowley got it. He’d known it before he went to Hell to give himself in the angel’s place. He’d known. 

He wouldn’t call it a mistake, but he would learn to do this differently. 

The next morning, they walked through Tadfield’s gardens, one looping into the next, their presence going unnoticed by the humans around them. (Save, of course, the four pre-teens, the witch, and the witch finder, who kept a watch over them.) 

Crowley walked with a cane. It was redder than his hair, the handle of it a cobra’s crest. His legs were unsteady. 

Aziraphale’s hands trembled. 

Crowley’s hand held his, steady and strong and alive. 

When his strength returned, Crowley requested to return to their South Downs cottage. Newt drove them home in his strange excuse for a car, and Crowley slept most of the way there. 

The cottage was coated with a thin layer of dust. Aziraphale waved it away. Crowley walked unsteadily to a chair, sat down heavily with a wince. 

Aziraphale followed, knelt before him, hands gently trembling against Crowley’s knees. Crowley’s head was rested against the tall back of the chair, but his hand reached for Aziraphale’s. The angel leaned up to place the hand on his cheek.

He was still shell shocked, quietly grateful for his husband’s return. 

Crowley lifted his head to look at Aziraphale and smiled, half-exhausted still. His other hand came up to frame the angel’s face, and after a moment of gazing at him, Crowley pulled him up.

Aziraphale braced himself on the arms of the chair and kissed his love, soft and gentle and attempting to communicate all the love and relief he felt. 

After a final, violent tremble, his hands stilled.


End file.
